


Forget me not

by brothebro



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gardens & Gardening, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: He sighed looking at the pretty batch of dandelions, soon to shed their lovely petals and become white and soft and flowy.Healways loved those especially. It pained him deeply thathewouldn’t be here this time to witness their transformation.He wiped a rogue tear with his palm. It’s too soon to cry, he told himself.Hewouldn’t want this.Hewould want for him to smile and go on about his day without a worry in his brow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 65
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #001





	Forget me not

It was a beautiful sunny day in their flowery garden, by their picturesque little cottage. They loved their garden, they both did. Every flower, every wild little thing that found its way there, everything had its place there. They loved it as much as they loved each other. Two men, a witcher and a bard, retired both, living in their tiny house with its lovely big garden. 

Seasons came and seasons passed -- although not as many as he would have liked -- their garden grew in that time, it flourished similar to the love they had for one another. 

He sighed looking at the pretty batch of dandelions, soon to shed their lovely petals and become white and soft and flowy.  _ He  _ always loved those especially. It pained him deeply that  _ he  _ wouldn’t be here this time to witness their transformation. 

He wiped a rogue tear with his palm. It’s too soon to cry, he told himself.  _ He  _ wouldn’t want this.  _ He  _ would want for him to smile and go on about his day without a worry in his brow. 

His gaze lingered to their small, manmade pond almost hidden behind the unruly flowers; bright purples, yellows, periwinkle blues. They’ve made the decision to construct it, one  _ especially  _ warm summer, where clothes would stick to their skin and the unrelenting sun would paint freckles on their noses. Before making them into human-shaped lobsters if they weren’t careful -- or smart -- enough to sit out under the warm treacherous rays. 

He smiled at the memory of his years' long love, nose bright red and all fussy, refusing to treat the sunburn with cooling salve. How stubborn  _ he  _ had been. 

Until the very end. 

He never thought he would be the one left at the end, tending to their little garden. It will be hard making it flourish without  _ him  _ there with him. A garden devoid of love was sure to wilt away and wither. But he wouldn’t allow this to happen to their beloved garden. It would be unacceptable and  _ he … He  _ would never forgive him. Not in this life and certainly not in the life after. 

The life after. 

It sure sounded comforting at this particular time of his life. He sighed audibly and deeply as if that would be able to take any of this- this godsawful weight of his shoulders. 

“It’s unfair,” he said to no one in particular; he’s all alone after all. 

They’ve had a good run, the two of them. They were best friends for two whole decades and sure, they had their fallings out but their love- their love proved stronger, deeper, bigger than anything he could have ever imagined. They defeated the Aen Elle for fuck’s sake. They helped a golden dragon, survived a djinn’s vicious attack, claimed a child surprise in a royal banquet, helped a bunch of dying elves in Dol Blathanna. 

They met in Posada. 

They married in that garden, almost thirty years later.

“It’s unfair,” he wept, trying to withhold his tears from falling. 

That garden. Their sunny flowery little paradise in the corner of the Continent. That garden. He wishes he had more time to spend with  _ him.  _ He wishes… He wishes to see his smile once more. To caress his silken hair. To rub his finger on the back of  _ his  _ hand. To hear the words I ‘love you’. To make love one last time.

But he can’t have that. The thread of  _ his  _ life has been cut short too soon. 

‘Too soon,’ the words lingered, twisted, mocking him in his mind. 

A pitchfork and a hand that wielded it. He wishes he could cut this hand clean off, feed it to the crows that frequented their garden. How cruel must fate be to take his love away from him like that? How utterly despicable. 

He cursed and he swore, every single word that he knows, but it’s not enough to describe the pain, the loathing, the deep aching sadness that he felt. It’s like someone ripped his heart right out of his chest cavity and crunched it under a metal boot. This, only a hundred times more painful. 

He looks at his love; deathly pale, eyes closed, hands neatly crossed upon his abdomen. He never thought he would have to live this day. And it was comforting, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they would grow old together, die side by side, preferably on their bed gazing at their lovely garden. 

What a fool he’d been.

“I’m sorry love,” he whispered, holding those familiar calloused hands in his own. His breath hitched as the cold dead skin touched his. “I’m sorry love,” he repeated, “I should have been here, die with you. Those monsters. And yes they are monsters, I don’t want to hear any of that ‘I’m the monster’ nonsense-” he stoped realizing his love, his husband would never reply to his babbling ever again. 

A sob escaped his lips. And then another. And another. And another. 

He started crying damn him. He started crying when he promised  _ him  _ he wouldn’t. 

“I’m sorry, I am so so so sorry,” he said between sobs, ugly thick tears rolled down his cheeks and stained his black silken attire. “I love you so damn much. So damn much, you hear me Geralt?”

He clenched his jaw, trying fruitlessly to even out his ragged breathing. 

“You can’t hear me,” he whispered and leaned closer to the casket, adorned by million little wildflowers covering his witcher’s legs. “I love you, more than life itself,” he planned a small kiss on the witcher’s silvery crown, “but I’ll live for you,” he made a promise, “I’ll live for you and for our daughter and for our garden.” 

He stood up, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes and looked -- really looked -- at the million little flowers, the tiny insects, the cool clear pool of water, hatching it in his memory. 

He made a promise and he intended to keep it.

Jaskier looked one last time at his husband.

“Goodbye my love, we’ll meet again once more over at the fields of forget-me-nots,” he sang softly and smiled. Took the shovel and started the hardest task of his pitifully short human life. 


End file.
